


It Sure Beats Standing Still

by spacetrek



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, it's been 50 degrees and rainy all day so here i am, they're both making an effort but at what cost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 03:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16421300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacetrek/pseuds/spacetrek
Summary: Stan and Ford go fishing.  It goes about as well as you’d expect





	It Sure Beats Standing Still

If Stan finds one more jar, bottle, or bag of undefinable monster body parts someplace where food, and only food, is supposed to be, he’s going to kick Ford’s ass.

He’s been the unofficially designated cook more or less since they set sail, because if the job was left to Ford they would both starve in a week. Besides, Stan really doesn’t mind cooking. He’s actually kinda good at it; nothing fancy, but solid fare.

He was _going_ to try his hand at that potato stew he vaguely remembers from their childhood, because he also vaguely remembers Ford liking it and he’s still trying to work his brother off those fake food pills of his, but when he went to get the potatoes he nearly stuck his hand in a (open, Ford, why) jar of monster guts.

So now, instead of making a nice hot lunch for both of them on what’s shaping up to be a chilly day, he’s marching downstairs, jar in hand (better than hand in jar, at least), to yell at his brother.

“Ford!”

“Stanley!” Ford is in his study, a tiny storage room they didn’t use for anything else. It’s crammed floor to ceiling with books and papers and even more weird jars. Stan can’t figure how Ford finds anything, or even gets into his own study, but that’s Ford’s problem, not his. “You won’t believe what I’ve found, it’s–”

“Yeah? You wanna know what I found?” He holds out the jar.

Ford skips right over his irritation and goes straight to the jar. “You found the Leviathan tentacles! I’ve been looking everywhere for them.”

“And do you know why you couldn’t find them?”

Ford, catching on, immediately gets cagey. “…I may have misplaced them.”

“You sure did. In the kitchen. Right next to the food. That we eat.” Stan wants to set the jar down loudly, because it’d be a great end to that little spiel, but there isn’t a clear space anywhere on Ford’s desk, so he just awkwardly hands it over.

“I’m sorry, Stanley,” Ford says, and Stan can tell he means it. “I was testing the effects of extreme heat on Leviathan skin, and–”

“Wait, hold up, testing heat? How?”

“I just put a tentacle in the frying pan. I used my little electric burner, not the stove,” Ford adds quickly, as if that makes it any better.

“Is that where the frying pan went?” Stan had been looking for the pan this morning, when he wanted to make eggs. He just assumed that he’d misplaced it and had toast instead, but apparently this is one theft he’s not responsible for.

“Yes, well.” Ford clears his throat and twists his fingers together, which is basically his equivalent of squirming. “It turns out that extreme heat has a… very negative effect on Leviathan skin.” A pause. “It melted to the pan.” Ford shrugs, clearly not planning to mourn the loss of their one frying pan. “But now we know how to fight one off, if it comes to that!”

“Ford, is there melted Leviathan somewhere in this room.”

“No, I threw the pan overboard.”

Stan sighs. “Yeah, I guess.” He scratches the side of his nose. “Well, there’s no fixing that. I’m gonna make lunch, and then–” he stops. Reconsiders.

“And then what, Stanley?”

It’s been a month and a half since they set sail, and things are going well. Going great, actually. They’ve fallen into a rhythm, an easy give-and-take that Stan hasn’t really had with anyone since he was a kid and running around with Ford on the beach.

That said, it’s new enough that he’s still a little hesitant to ask for stuff sometimes, to push for things he likes and wants to do, even though Ford’s assured him a hundred times that it’s okay to ask.

(Ford is a hypocrite, because Ford doesn’t ask either. He just thinks Stan doesn’t notice. Still, the fact that Ford is just as wary of pushing too hard, of losing what they have, is kinda reassuring, in its own way. They’ll get there).

This time, Stan opts to suck it up and finish his sentence. “And then maybe we could take a break.”

Ford frowns. “A break?”

“Yeah, genius, a break. Leisure. Just spending time hangin’ out, recharging. It’s a normal-people thing.”

“Ha ha.” Ford pushes some papers aside – most of them end up on the floor, but he doesn’t seem to care – to make room for the jar. “I know what a break is, Stanley. I take them.”

“Sure, when you pass out. You’ve been kinda wrapped up in your work lately.”

“I’m not obsessed.”

Ford’s tone has gone stiff – that’s still a touchy subject. “I didn’t say that.” Acknowledge, but don’t dwell; this is not turning into a thing. “You just need to live a little! Give your brain a chance to think about somethin’ besides fried monster.”

Ford relaxes and offers a smile, conciliatory. “Did you have an activity in mind?”

“I was gonna go fishing.” Stan takes the ritual pause after this announcement, and right on cue, his brother makes a face. Ford’s always hated fishing, so much so that Stan can’t even be offended because it’s just funny. They used to ‘debate’ (Ford’s word, not Stan’s; none of those arguments they had were anywhere near as civilized as an actual debate, but it made Ford feel better so whatever) about the merits of fishing when they were kids, and Stan doesn’t recall them ever reaching a satisfactory conclusion to the issue. Their first week on the _Stan O’ War II_ resurrected the childhood dispute, and Stan would be lying if he said he didn’t actively push Ford’s buttons over it now and then.

He is lying about it, actually, because Ford’s asked and he said no, but they both know he’s lying so it doesn’t count.

“I’m gonna fish,” Stan repeats. “You can just sit out on deck and read one of your nerd books.”

“No, I think I want to try.”

“Try?”

“Fishing.”

“You want to fish?” Stan’s proud of how not-incredulous he manages to sound.

“Yes.” Ford looks absurdly determined, like he’s preparing to take on a Gremloblin or something instead of just sit still with a fishing pole for twenty minutes. “I want to see why everyone seems to enjoy it so much.” He glances up at Stan. “And you’re right. I have been… preoccupied, lately, with the kelpie clan we found. I haven’t spent much time with you.”

Most of Stan is genuinely pleased and touched and all kinds of other stupid sappy feelings. He didn’t say it outright, but Ford wants to spend time with him. Ford wants to do something that Stan enjoys just because Stan enjoys it.

The rest of Stan is gleefully anticipating a hilarious trainwreck of an afternoon and a hell of a story to tell the kids.

Either way, he’s thrilled.

He realizes he hasn’t actually said any of this out loud, and Ford is starting to look anxious.

He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sure. I’ll dig up my spare pole.”

Ford smiles, and Stan mentally promises to do his best to make sure Ford has fun fishing, because maybe he’ll do it again.

Even if it’d be really funny to wind him up.

*****

They’re ten minutes into this endeavor, and it actually hasn’t been terrible.

Ford listens to Stan’s explanation of how to set and bait a hook like he’s going to be quizzed on it later. He then listens to Stan’s little song and dance about how ‘fishing should be fun, Sixer, don’t overthink it’ with a little less intensity, but he seems to be trying. He only stabs himself twice baiting the hook, and that’s better than Stan when he started fishing, so.

They’re both leaning against the rail and Ford is rambling about possible upgrades for the fishing rods, some of which actually sound pretty great and some of which… don’t.

“I don’t think hypnotizing the fish to bite the hook is a good idea,” Stan says, butting in on Ford’s tangent.

Ford takes a moment to recall his thoughts pre-interruption before asking, “Why not?”

“It takes all the uncertainty out of it.”

That, predictably, doesn’t work on Ford.

“Isn’t that a good thing? If you’re trying to catch fish, shouldn’t you make it as easy and foolproof as possible? For that matter, you could–”

“I told you, Sixer, fishing’s not about catchin’ fish. At least, not casual fishing, like we’re doing.” Stan draws his line in and casts it out again, motioning for Ford to do the same.

Ford does, a little less smoothly. “Then what _is_ the point? I’ve read about fishing, and–”

“You _read_ about– never mind; ‘course you did. Where?”

“On the Internet,” Ford says. “I looked it up on Wikipedia while you were making lunch.”

It figures. Ford’s been living in the modern world for less than three months and he’s already better with the Internet thing than Stan will probably ever be, and that suits him just fine. Let Ford do the work. “Sure, you can fish to eat. We’ll probably eat what we catch, if that makes you feel better, but – when you’re fishing by yourself, if’s just a way to have something to do, y’know? Like you drawing when you’re just sittin’ around. And fishing with other people is a social activity. Fun.”

“Fun,” Ford mutters, and Stan stifles a laugh.

“Yeah, fun. It might not be your thing.”

“I don’t think it is,” Ford says, absent and gazing out over the ocean, “but it is your thing, so I could do it once in a while, too. If you wanted.”

Stan does want that, a lot, but all he says is “Moses, you got sappy in your old age.”

“As if you’re one to talk. You made that potato stew for lunch because you remembered I like it.”

“I like it too,” Stan retorts, defensive.

“Yes, but that’s not why you made it.” Ford looks smug, like he knows he’s right.

He is, but Stan's not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

“Leave monster guts in the kitchen again and we’ll see how much potato stew you eat.”

“Those were appendages, not innards, and I could make it myself.”

Stan snorts, then outright laughs at the offended look on Ford’s face. “You’d get distracted. By the monster guts you left in the kitchen.”

“I would not.”

“Would too.”

“Would not.”

“Would–”

Ford’s fishing rod nearly wrenches itself out of his hand. Startled, but still with his over-fast portal reflexes, he hangs on.

He does wheeze when he gets slammed gut-first into the rail, but you can’t win them all.

“You got a bite!”

Ford doesn’t have enough air left in him to talk, but the withering glare he shoots Stan gets his point across well enough.

Stan means to stand back and let Ford reel his catch in himself, maybe take a picture with the camera phone for the kids (and himself), but another yank on the rod almost takes Ford over the side. Stan promptly steps in.

It feels like there’s a truck tied to the other end of the line.

“Ford–”

An ugly grey-green blob rears up twenty feet from the Stan O’ War, water rushing from its mouth as it bares razor-sharp teeth at them.

“What the hell.” Stan turns to Ford, hoping for an explanation. His brother is practically vibrating with excitement. “Ford, what is that thing?”

“I have absolutely no idea!” Fantastic. Ford lunges back, nearly knocking Stan over. “Help me bring it in!”

“How is the line even holding it?” No way fishing line rated for twenty pounds should stop that monster – it’s not especially big, compared to other things they’ve seen, but it’s angry and determined and that makes it dangerous.

“I modified it.” Ford slips on the deck; Stan catches him around the waist to keep him from knocking his head on the rail. “I didn’t– want you to lose anything you caught because your line wasn’t strong enough. Same with– with the pole.”

It’s so completely out of left field, so thoughtful in the most ridiculous way, and isn’t that just like Ford.

Stan looks at the furious thrashing thing out in the water, then back at Ford, and mentally accepts his fate. He knew what he was getting into when he went sailing with his brother, and he signed up for the whole damn run. Fish monsters included.

He plants his feet like he’s about to throw a punch and says, “Masterclass in landin’ a fish, bro. You ready?”

Ford’s answering smile is all teeth.

Fifteen minutes of swearing, soaking, and fist-swinging later, they’ve landed themselves the catch from hell.

Stan looks down at the wriggling monster, now trapped in one of Ford’s magic warded nets, and wonders if he’ll ever just get to have a normal day.

Probably not.

Ford is already circling the net, trying to get a better look at the creature and skidding a little on the slippery wet deck in his excited hurry. He looks ridiculous with his slime-covered jacket, bruised cheek, and dripping hair.

He also looks happier than Stan’s seen in... forever, since even before the science project mess.

Honestly, if all Stan has to put up with to keep Ford this happy is sea monster guts in the kitchen and the occasional demon fish, he’s a lucky man.

“Stanley?”

“Yeah, Ford?”

“I’ve changed my mind about fishing.” Ford crouches down to the deck, still grinning like he’s won the lottery. “I haven’t had this much fun in years.”

**Author's Note:**

> what do you want to bet that the fish monster is gonna wind up in a tank in the kitchen  
> I thought of the first line of this in algebra class and just kept writing it in my head on and off until now when I was actually able to write it down so here it is
> 
> title is from “Bumpy Ride” by The Hoosiers


End file.
